


kind of faded but i feel alright

by prettylittlementirosa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Shotgunning, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlementirosa/pseuds/prettylittlementirosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky pushes off the frame to stand up straight. “What if I share?” he asks. He’s going along with this stupid charade - like he actually got caught doing something he’s not supposed to be doing - and he’s doing it with a devious smile, like this was his plan all along.</p><p>“Are you trying to bribe me with drugs?” Sam asks, just to keep the banter going.</p><p>“Just offering to help you feel good,” Bucky says and Sam is about to ask exactly what he means by that - hello, innuendo - when Bucky moves forward and pulls Sam’s shirt up to reveal the gash in his left side. “This can’t feel nice.”</p><p> </p><p>(Or: Winter Falcon + shotgunning)</p>
            </blockquote>





	kind of faded but i feel alright

**Author's Note:**

> I said I was going to write a sambucky shotgunning fic. So I did. That's pretty much all that's happening here. It's short and fun and I just needed to get it out of my brain. Unedited. Unbeta'd. Please enjoy this ridiculousness (while pretending like there's no such thing as a super soldier metabolism that would render THC obsolete).
> 
> And come say hi on [tumblr!](http://bisexualbcky.tumblr.com/)

Sam knows how to fight. Part of it’s his military training; Big Brother taught him how to throw a punch and how to take one. He learned how to shoot a gun, and more importantly, how to aim one. But his ability to kick ass- that’s all him. He’s walked into more than one gunfight with nothing but his fists and came out victorious. He’s just that good.

So the fact that he’s been out of commission for three days now while twelve stitches help knit the skin on his side back together is more than just a little irritating. That knife never should have came anywhere close to touching him. The fact that he got cut while doing something as mundane as paying for gas makes it all the more aggravating.

Sam’s good at walking out of fights practically unscathed, but that’s because he usually knows when he’s walking into them. It’s a completely different story when some random person, drugged out of their mind, decides to shove a blade into his side out of fucking nowhere and then try to rob the guy behind the counter. It took Sam less than two seconds to disarm him but it would’ve been nice if he could’ve done it _before_ the guy cut him open.

The wound stills hurts but the real reason Sam can’t sleep is because he’s annoyed. He’s _been_ annoyed. For what feels like weeks now. Maybe even months. Living as a fugitive is not really living at all. Sure, fighting with Captain America is a great resume builder, but hiding out with Steve Rogers and his merry band of insurgents, not so much.

It’s one in the morning and Sam is still wide fucking awake, grumbling under his breath to himself about everything in the world that’s annoying him right now. His side still fucking hurts and now it’s starting to feel itchy as well and he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in probably three years. It’s all catching up to him, maybe.

Plus, he’s thirsty. And hot.

He throws the covers off and pulls himself up out of bed to head for the kitchen. The wood flooring is cold against his bare feet but it feels nice. This house they’ve been living in for the past three months is definitely not the worst place they’ve stayed while on the run but there’s no air-conditioning and summer’s starting to creep up on them. No amount of open windows and strategically placed fans can make up the difference. It’s not hot enough yet to be an actual problem but the cool floor still feels nice. He almost wants to pull his shirt off and lie down on his side, stitches pressed against the cold of the floor.

He’s not going to do that though. He’s not seen a single person with a mop in their hands once in the three months since they’ve been here. He’s just going to have to settle for a glass of cold water right now.

There’s movement in his periphery as he opens one of the cabinets to pull out a glass. When he turns his head he sees Bucky leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing that dumb U.C. Santa Cruz Banana Slugs t-shirt he loves so much; Sam still has no idea where he got it. They haven’t even stepped foot in California but Bucky’s had that shirt for almost a year now. There’s a hole in the hem, right over the space where his right hip bone juts out. Sam’s surprised there aren’t any higher up, like where the shirt’s stretched thin across his broad shoulders and over his chest. It’s not the first time Sam’s had the thought. Probably won’t be the last.

Bucky leans his head against the doorframe but doesn’t say anything. It’s not unusual. It’s not that he’s shy, or even that he’s particularly quiet, he’s just good at letting other people decide whether or not they want to have a conversation. Sam appreciates it. It’s one of his favorite things about Bucky, actually- the way he’s content to just let the silence linger.

Tonight, though, Sam’s not really interested in silence. Plus, Bucky’s got jeans and shoes on in addition to that damn shirt and Sam wants to know exactly where he thinks he’s slipping off to in the middle of the night dressed like that.

“If you disappear again, I’m not coming after you,” he says, dropping a handful of ice cubes into his glass. It’s a joke. He knows Bucky’s not running. He hasn’t been afraid of that since Steve broke him out of Oceantanamo and Bucky was there waiting in the jet.

“You’d miss me,” Bucky says without missing a beat. Sam’s not looking at him - he’s filling his glass with water - but he’d bet all four-hundred-thirty-two dollars he currently has to his name that the man’s smiling. This thing they’re doing right now - the one where they poke and prod and try to get the other to say it out loud - it’s familiar. They’ve been doing it for months, maybe longer. There’ve been some close calls but neither of them have broken yet and Sam’s not going to be the first to do so.

So instead of confirming that _yes_ he would miss Bucky if he was gone, he takes a sip from his glass, then nods in the general direction of his shoes. “Where you going?”

Bucky looks down at his shoes, then back up at Sam. “Was sitting on the porch.”

Sam believes him, has no reason not to, but he also can’t think of a single reason Bucky would be sitting outside in the middle of the night so he gives him his best approximation of the _explain yourself_ face his mother used to level him with.

Bucky shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“So naturally you sat on the porch.” It’s actually a perfectly acceptable reason and Sam knows it. But he wants to push. He likes this game. Especially when nobody else is around to call them on it, snap them back to reality. Here in the kitchen in the middle of the night, just the two of them, nobody else awake to keep it simple, the stakes feel higher, almost dangerous.

Bucky doesn’t smile but it’s a near thing. He still hasn’t left his spot in the doorway, blocking Sam in. “A little fresh air never hurt anyone.”

Sam doesn’t actually want to leave the kitchen, not right now when it’s just the two of them, but he wants to see what will happen if he tries. Either Bucky will stay planted exactly where he is, giving Sam a reason to touch him, even if it is only to try and push past him. Or he’ll let Sam pass, in which case Sam will make his way out to the porch, and he’s pretty sure Bucky will follow.

Bucky doesn’t move out of the way when Sam steps in front of him - doesn’t move at all - but it doesn’t matter because Sam’s no longer trying to get past him, his attention now drawn to the scent rolling off Bucky. It’s strong. Sam has no idea how he didn’t notice it before.

“You smell like a college dorm room, man,” he says, coughing for emphasis, and waving his hand in front of his face. He imagines this is what it’s like to be on the set of a Seth Rogen movie- clouds of marijuana smoke billowing off of every person you so much as make eye contact with.

“You gonna tell Steve on me?” Bucky asks with a smirk. There’s something about the way he says it- like he’s daring Sam to do something about it (as dumb as it is- Bucky’s a grown man and can do whatever the hell he wants) that goes straight to Sam’s gut.

“Maybe,” Sam says and takes another sip from his glass just to have something to do.

Bucky pushes off the frame to stand up straight. “What if I share?” he asks. He’s going along with this stupid charade - like he actually got caught doing something he’s not supposed to be doing - and he’s doing it with a devious smile, like this was his plan all along.

“Are you trying to bribe me with drugs?” Sam asks, just to keep the banter going.

“Just offering to help you feel good,” Bucky says and Sam is about to ask exactly what he means by _that_ \- hello, innuendo - when Bucky moves forward and pulls Sam’s shirt up to reveal the gash in his left side. “This can’t feel nice.”

There’s actual concern on his face now as the fingertips of his flesh hand ghost over the stitches in Sam’s skin. Sam’s still surprised at how gentle he can be. 

“Come on,” Bucky says, putting his hands on Sam’s biceps to walk him backward until he’s pressed up against one of the counters, then takes the glass from him and sets it down. Sam has no idea where Bucky’s going with this but he sure as hell wants to find out, so he lets it happen.

Bucky’s not pressed up against him, he’s not even touching him, but they’re close enough to be sharing the same air, close enough that Sam can see, even in the dim light that’s filtering in from the moon outside, that Bucky’s got a thin layer of stubble coming in all along his jaw. Sam has to grip the edge of the counter behind him just to keep himself from reaching out and touching it while he waits for Bucky to do whatever it is he’s planning on doing with Sam pushed up against this counter.

What Bucky ends up doing is reaching into his pocket and pulling out a dark glass pipe and an orange BIC lighter. Then he pulls out a little baggie from his back pocket and methodically starts to pack the bowl.

Sam feels like a teenager, the way butterflies are fluttering around in his stomach as he watches Bucky’s fingers expertly pick through the contents of the bag to pick the right size buds to place in the bowl. He even has feelings about the way Bucky shoves the baggie back into his pocket when he’s done with it. Sam’s way too old for this shit.

But then Bucky’s bringing the pipe to his lips and he’s flicking the lighter, the flame illuminating his face momentarily, just long enough for Sam to make out the sharpness of his cheek bones as he inhales. When he brings the the pipe away from his mouth, he wastes no time making eye contact with Sam, giving him a little nod to let him know exactly what he’s going to do next.

Sam licks his lips and lets Bucky lean in, just close enough that their noses are touching, but not close enough for their lips to actually meet. Bucky opens his mouth and exhales, and Sam breathes in the smoke he releases. 

It’s definitely not the worst way to deal with insomnia.

After Bucky’s pulled back a little - still only leaving about a foot between their faces - and Sam’s exhaled the smoke, Bucky holds the pipe up for Sam to take a hit. Sam takes it and brings it to his lips, keeping his eyes on Bucky the entire time. It’s not even on purpose, he just can’t seem to tear his gaze away. He’s just realizing he doesn’t have the lighter when Bucky flicks it and lights the bowl for Sam.

Sam takes a deep breath in and holds it, waiting for Bucky to move in and breath the smoke out of him.

For a second, Bucky just looks at him, like he’s forgotten what they’re doing, but then his eyes flick down to Sam’s lips and he moves forward, placing his left hand on the counter behind Sam. 

Sam doesn’t need to do it - they’re both coordinated enough to hold steady while they exchange the smoke from the hit - but he doesn’t care. He brings the hand not still holding the pipe up to Bucky’s jaw, holding him in place as he exhales the smoke into his mouth.

Bucky breathes in at the same time as his right hand finds its way to Sam’s hip. At first he just rests it there, like he’s using Sam’s body to steady himself, but after a couple seconds he slips his fingers up and under Sam’s shirt, letting skin meet skin, setting Sam’s nerves on fire. Bucky’s fingers are slowly making their way from Sam’s hip to his lower back but it’s not enough. Sam wants more - more contact, more friction, more everything - so he he slides his hand from Bucky’s jaw around to the back of his head and pulls Bucky back in, encouraging him to pass the smoke back to him.

Bucky complies, opening his mouth and letting the smoke flow out. His arm is now snaked completely around Sam, their bodies flush against each other, this little game of chicken they’ve been playing quickly coming to an end. Bucky doesn’t move away once he’s exhaled all the smoke from his lungs. He lingers there, letting his lips lightly bump against Sam’s, each moment of contact sending a tingling sensation right through Sam’s body.

Sam doesn’t even try to hold in the smoke he’s just inhaled. He’s more concerned with the way Bucky’s eyes are focused on his lips, the way Bucky’s holding him, the way Bucky’s pushing their bodies together. It’s still not enough; Sam wants more - _more more more_ \- and then Bucky gives it to him; then Bucky’s very purposefully brushing their lips together, moving his body impossibly closer against Sam’s, his tongue slipping in between Sam’s parted lips, wet and sliding and so _so_ very good; then Bucky’s taking the pipe out of Sam’s hand - his lips still moving against Sam’s - and setting it down somewhere out of the way, guiding Sam’s hand up to wrap around his neck; then Bucky’s got one hand on the back of each of Sam’s thighs and he’s lifting, setting Sam on top of the counter, positioning himself in between his legs, pulling Sam to the edge of the counter, running his hands up Sam’s thighs, up around his waste, up and down his back, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake; then Bucky’s making a guttural noise in the back of his throat, one that probably echoes the sounds coming out of Sam right now, months of pent-up frustration escaping them as they move their lips and their hands and their entire bodies together.

Sam feels relaxed for the first time in months. It’s like every piece of tension, every moment of frustration, is just slipping right from his body, like Bucky’s drawing it out with his own. If Sam had known this is what it’s like to kiss Bucky Barnes, he would’ve gladly lost their little game months ago.

Bucky breaks the kiss to pull back and look at Sam. He brings his hand up to run his thumb over Sam’s lips. “Can I-,” he starts, then takes a deep breath, like it physically pains him not to be kissing Sam. “I want you in my bed, naked. Can I-”

Sam cuts him off with a kiss cause _yeah,_ yeah that’s definitely something Bucky can do.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Thinkin about making my move tonight  
>  I can't pretend that you're only my friend when you're holdin my body tight  
> Cause I like the way you're making your move  
> I like the way you're making me wait  
> At the end of the night, when i make up your mind  
> You'll be coming on home with me
> 
> *continues dancing obliviously to dumb pop music from the past*


End file.
